


Memento Mori

by Wraithlight



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Graphic Description, M/M, Major Character Injury, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to Illness, Religious Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-06-15 22:48:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15423351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wraithlight/pseuds/Wraithlight
Summary: Dismas was a thief long before he was the heir’s hired man. His trade has sharpened his accuracy as much as his blade– skills he now puts towards clearing the estate’s growing hoards of eldritch, otherworldly horrors. It’s contract, he thinks– and maybe an attempt at some foolish redemption for the irredeemable.Maybe putting his tired, scrappy self up against evils for the rest of his life is enough to make a dent in the heavy guilt on his shoulders.





	1. To Wheldrake

The stagecoach wheels rattle down the uneven path, rocking the three travelers in their seats. It’s tense, quiet save for the insistent clatter of the luggage strapped to the roof, and Dismas wishes they were at the Estate already. The crusader hasn’t spoken since Dismas heard his voice outside the carriage. The man is probably off-put by the scrappy rogue already staking a claim in the corner of the seat. He had likely expected more than the likes of him, after all, the heir certainly had coin to line his pockets- couldn’t he have found someone more… moral? Dismas is certainly the odd one out between the triad. The party looks like a sad start of a pub joke, and he’s sure they’re all aware of it. _A knight, brigand, and noble heir all walk into a bar…_ Dismas works with it in his head halfheartedly, then drops it with a dissatisfied grunt and a shift towards the carriage door.

The gnarled oaks and twisting undergrowth is at least a distraction. The heir calls it the Old Road. Trees look withered- messes that are as likely to give good firewood as they might be to give way under his hand to spongey rot and decay. The brambles hide anything that’s lurking there, much to the highwayman’s discontent. He can’t expect the forest to yield up any threats as if to spare itself from being accused criminal, but damn does he wish there was a bit more light in the sky to deter any opportunistic bastards, man and beast alike. 

A sudden crack of the caretaker’s whip snaps Dismas’s attention back to the front of the stagecoach in enough time to recognize the panicked bay of a spooked horse and the splintering of wood. He doesn’t have time to brace himself as the carriage is thrown to the side, his body colliding with platemail and wooden fixtures alike in a dizzying commotion. He brings his arms up to shield himself, taking the brunt of the impact on his shoulders and forearms, his eyes squeezed shut. 

He feels the armored figure besides him move to stand up before he does. A groan works its way to him from his left, the heir, and before his body can protest in the same manner, Dismas hauls himself to his knees, then his feet. The carriage is near on its side. While the knight starts to help the heir up, Dismas is already clambering to the other door, forcing it open and hitting the ground with the soles of his boots. Their luggage is lost to the forest for the most part. A few of the heavier trunks remain, too dense to be thrown from the top, but where the rest landed is anyone’s guess. Well, Dismas suspects the brambles, but he had only brought himself. The heir can sob over the loss of his robes later. 

On closer inspection, any hope Dismas had of them righting the carriage and continuing on is dashed. He stoops to his knees, wet mud between the rocks soaking into his pants. The back axle is splintered, well beyond repair. He hears the knight and his charge drop to the ground to his side, one of the two muttering about madness. It can’t be the knight. Dismas sighs a curse under his breath and stands. A look to the pair confirms his suspicions. The heir is visibly pale, eyes flitting nervously about the trees. God damn this. Of course the one who hired them was the first to quiver. Dismas takes two steps towards the two. 

“The caretaker is gone, along with the horse. I would think he’s ahead, on his way to the town before us.”

“He’s gone to save his own skin,” Dismas glowers, bitter. He looks to the road ahead of them, then turns to the heir. “How far have we got on foot?”

The heir smooths his hair back before worrying his hands over one another. There’s some mirthless amusement in knowing the noble is likely frightened for his life, ditched en route with no prayer in heaven to bring the sun around faster. Dismas thinks he’d enjoy it more if he wasn’t worried after his own skin. 

“It’s two hours to Wheldrake, I’d reckon, if we make haste.” 

Dismas doesn’t hesitate to turn and start walking. 

\----------------

It can’t be much longer than half-an-hour before lady luck frowns on them again. They have the heir behind them, trees forcing them to a narrow path. He walks closest to the noble, making a case that he’ll be the quickest one to react if something sneaks up on him. Really, he just dislikes the idea of the holy knight breathing down his neck for two damnable hours. Dismas hears the rustle before he can act on it, before the knight can act on it. A green-clad bandit lunges towards their crusader, blade aimed towards the gap between pauldron and mail.

All the knight can do is block the blundering body with the flat of his blade as it comes towards him, other hand reinforcing it along his length. He shoves their adversary away without grace, and Dismas sees his opening. He cocks his hammer back, raises his flintlock to the reeling brigand, and pulls the trigger. The round lodges somewhere in his chest, judging by the sputter and grunt. The bullet’s mark becomes apparent when the sputtering turns to ugly hacking. He had collapsed a lung.

Recovering from the shock of the assault, the knight presses his advantage. The longsword’s pommel cracks into the crown of the bandit’s skull, splintering bone. Dismas readies his dirk in time to see that he doesn’t need it. The thug makes an anguished cry and falls, body already starting to twitch. He hears a gag behind him and turns to see the heir with a hand over his mouth, pale with wide eyes.  


_Oh hell,_ he thinks watching the noble. _This man is going to be sick._

Dismas can’t blame the man. Or at least, that’s what he’s decided while they wait for the heir to finish heaving in the bushes. Even being accustomed to bleed outs, death throes and gargles, Dismas hadn’t found the scene entirely pleasant. Granted, it’s not much better listening to the wet sound of vomit. The knight said a little prayer over the corpse, and Dismas looted its pockets for the coins and single gold ring. 

“You were quick on the draw, highwayman.”

Dismas looks to the knight, face tucked behind his neckerchief. He isn’t sure if it’s a sure compliment or simply passive aggressive. Perhaps it’s both. A recognition of his skill, and a warning that should he become an opportunistic bastard himself it wouldn’t be enough. Heartwarming. The neckerchief hides his scowl.

“Don’t count on that accuracy all the time. I could have very well shot through your skull if you had decided to be more rash, crusader.” He can’t see the knight’s face, but he sees tension return to his posture as he falls quiet. All for the better. They should be more on edge, in Dismas’s opinion. Just one bandit? He himself had been on his lonesome for some time before he… stepped away from thieving, but it was uncommon. And for him to attack a group such as theirs? It isn’t sitting right with him. The knight’s voice breaks his train of thought once more, and this time Dismas lifts his face to him in surprise.

“You shall not call me crusader,” he says, voice darker than before. It only holds the tone for a second, though. “I am Reynauld, of the Holy Light.”

Cracking of brambles draw them away from their conversation, heads turning to the sound. The heir returns to them with a little more color in his face. 

“There,” Dismas smirks, “you’re looking better. Let’s get on with it. This time, I’m taking point.”

Reynauld turns now, incredulous. “You were the one requesting to take up guard of our charge earlier, were you not? Do you shirk your responsibilities so easily after a skirmish?”

“Calm down, holy man.” Dismas gestures to his pistol. “Did you already forget what I said? I’d hate to blow the Light’s gift to man’s brain out of his armored skull if it comes to it.” Dismas is sure he fetches a sneer from the crusader. “Besides, for all the smoke you’re blowing, I’m the better scout.”

Reynauld begrudgingly gestures for him to take point, and Dismas pushes his luck with it, straying ahead by a good clip. It’s quieter, though, free from the din of the knight’s mail. It’s for that reason he hears the click of the hammer on a gun. 

“GET DOWN.” It barely leaves his mouth as the shot rings out. The spread sprays out over the party, and Dismas can feel pellets impact the dirt in front of him as he hits the ground. He hears the sound of lead bullets on metal with his face to the mud and scrambles back to his feet. 

Reynauld shields the heir, arm brought up to shelter his own face while his broad shoulders hide the noble from the line of sight like a proper whipping boy. Dismas can’t tell if the shot managed to break through the plate mail, but he doesn’t have time to worry. A second brigand- a pig of a man- lets out a guttural cry. Dismas can only see his meaty hand whisk behind his head in the split second he has to react. In a second the reins of a whip lash against him, snapping against his chest. Even through his coat Dismas can feel the welts spring up, crying red and stinging against his overshirt. 

Dismas snarls like a wounded dog and thrashes out in retaliation, dagger finding purchase in the fatty flesh. They both stumble back, Dismas for safety and the bloodletter in pain. Dismas covers his stomach with his sword hand, grimacing at the sear of the welts. He sees the flash of armor to his side as the knight lunges forward, longsword in hand. The cold metal bites into the bloodletter’s shoulder, rending his joint near from his body. With it Reynauld takes a howl of pain from the brigand, the sound bloodcurdling. The click of a hammer yanks the highwayman’s attention back to the fusilier. 

He fights back a wince and wills himself to stand straight. He draws faster, and for a moment both rogues mirror each other, holding the opposite at gunpoint through the struggle of their party. Dismas’s mind flickers back to the words he scoffed to Reynauld, the image of a shot to the back of the crusader’s skull. He pulls the trigger. 

The fusilier drops, body hitting the ground with a thud and then convulsing seconds before going still. Dismas feels weight drop from his shoulders. A glance back to the heir reveals him gritting his teeth, stressed but unharmed. All that’s left is the bloodletter. 

Reynauld pulls his sword back through the cleaved shoulder. The brigand raises his whip again and finds his range wanting. The knight knows he’s too close to be lashed. The leather hilt crashes into his helm instead, and he lurches back. He takes a ragged breath, still reeling from the impact, and tightens his grip on his sword. The bloodletter raises to strike again, and the knight takes his chance. He thrusts forward, driving his blade through the center mass of his opponent. The scrape of blade against bones assures him of spearing into his spine, and then the shuddering spasm confirms it. The knight draws his blade away quickly as the corpse topples.

Silence returns, and the party shares a look between them. There were no fatal injuries. Just welts, scrapes, bruises. It was their first good luck of the night. 

“Let’s head on,” the heir says quietly, as if speaking any louder would bait misfortune to them again, “to Wheldrake.”


	2. Left to Rot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dullness of the town at least provides peace, he thinks. Well, maybe silence is more apt, but Dismas thinks the state of the place and “silence” pair with rather morbid consequences. He’ll stick with peaceful, for his own sake.

The town is sickly. That’s all Dismas can say of it as he crosses the worn stone bridge. Buildings stand, threatening to cave to the wind. Townspeople look pale, devoid of will as much as life. Everything smells of must. Even the light from the windows has a pallor glow. The townsfolk stay away from the triad, shamble around them, but eyes flick over the noble and linger on the pair who are clearly untouched by the town’s necrosis. 

Dismas is starting to doubt the stability of their new residence. Of course, he can’t say he expected the town to be cheerful. Brigands in the woods was one thing, a normal thing. These town people seem plagued by something greater. Unease sinks into the hired man’s stomach. 

The first thing to draw his attention across the bridge is a covered wagon- currently empty, bar the driver who looks to be preparing to set out on the Old Road. He seems to be the only one journeying in the wagon. Dismas wonders if the surviving thugs had finished plundering the stagecoach they left behind, and if so, would they be so ready to spring again? They have it easy. The thugs have a group, safety in numbers, options for pickings and plenty of them. He turns from the wagon with a scathing sense of how he had to scrape for what ultimately ended in a pathetic, gouging sin. 

“How much would you wager on him gettin’ jumped?” It’s a bitter scoff, under his breath to the man besides him. He waits for a second, then realizes who he’s walking with. A moment of silence passes, and then the righteous condescension begins.

“I suppose you would bet more than I, if I gambled. You are the robber among us.” The crusader says it without even a sparing glance, and Dismas has to bite his tongue to manage spitting daggers back. 

“I don’t gamble, knight. Or I can’t, not anymore- known to be fond of a certain pair of dice.” Though, maybe in this sorry excuse for a town he can get away with it. Dismas makes a note to try his hand at the tables when he has gold to wager as he hears the knight scoff, suspicions likely confirmed. He still keeps his eyes forward as he adds another lash to their conversation. 

“I was referencing other sins, highwayman.” 

Dismas bites his tongue again, hand gripping his dagger’s hilt. How many men are clear of sin anyways?

\-----------

The dullness of the town at least provides peace, he thinks. Well, maybe silence is more apt, but Dismas thinks the state of the place and “silence” pair with rather morbid consequences. He’ll stick with peaceful, for his own sake. 

The knight had left to pursue viewing the state of the church leaving Dismas to wander on his own. He quite likes it. No pale heir, no reminders that he was likely going to hell- especially since he has elected to skip the abbey for the time being. Not to mention, of course, the history of robbing, murdering, and other notable moral atrocities Dismas is sure he’s committed. No, just him, the red welts of the lashes the bloodletter had left, and the quiet.

Lovely. Absolutely lovely. 

Skipping the church, however, does give him the opportunity to pick out his bunk first. He tucks himself in the corner, with nothing to throw on the bed to claim it as his other than his gloves for the time being. The room is of substantial size. The heir must be expecting quite the ragtag group of misfits to assist him, then. So far the collection has gotten along swimmingly. Dismas can’t image there’ll be strife once they add even more to the mix. He huffs, letting the bunk take his weight. 

God’s teeth, what had he signed up for? 

He makes the decision to turn in early. His feet are sore from the walk, and his bones always seem to plead exhaustion. The beds, while not stunning, coerce him to lay back and close his eyes. He toes his boots off by the heels and lets them fall to the ground with dull thuds. Light, his chest hurts like hell.

Dismas cautiously slips his hand up his shirt. His wounds protest the prodding of his fingers. The whine of bruises under his touch makes him grit his teeth. It had been through his coat and shirt, and yet the whip had still taken its pound of flesh. He sighs, tired of it all already. He’ll need to buy more belts. Two? Two. That’ll at least cover his stomach. He needs gold, though. Needs gold to eat and drink and to clothe himself- maybe he should have stuck to thieving. 

Dismas rolls to his side. At least he has a bed. A good bed, in a safe room, in a good spot. Things could be worse. He pulls his coat over himself more closely, taking some comfort in the familiarity. Things will be better in the morning. 

\-----------

Things, unsurprisingly, are not better in the morning. He wakes up to an obnoxious voice and groggily fumbles to unwrap himself from the sheets. That’s when he sees the bird mask. 

“What in the Light’s-”

“So these are the quarters, hmm? I suppose I would have expected better. No matter! We shall only be sleeping here, no need to be opulent!” She throws a pack on her bed of choice, the top bunk right next to his, without so much as looking at him. Or, maybe she is. Can she see him through the tinted glass?

He can feel Reynauld’s gaze on him, though. No doubt he’s waiting to scold him for his sacrilege. Dismas sits up now, body protesting. Beyond the bird woman and the crusader, there’s another in the room. A nun? She sets her bundle on the bed close to the fireplace, where Reynauld is cleaning his blade on a poorly-made stool. Birds of a feather, then. Dismas fumbles for his gloves, scowl already on his face. 

The bird woman looks at him now- he knows because her beak points straight at him. “And who are you, friend?”

“I should ask you the same thing. I was here first, after all.” He pulls his gloves on as abrasively as he can manage. He should have liked to sleep for awhile longer. Yet, it seems like their accomplices have no sense of courtesy. 

“That ragged fool is Dismas.” The brigand flashes his scowl towards Reynauld now. What a prick. He wouldn’t even let him have the dignity of his own introduction. 

“Dismas!” She all but chirps. “Well then, I’m Paracelsus, your scientist on the premise.” 

He can’t help but wonder why they hired a scientist to the team. Will she dissect the rodents nibbling at the townsfolk's feet?

“Junia.” The other calls from her bunk. Her voice is soothing in comparison to all the others, and Dismas finds it to pacify his irritation. He snorts. One likeable woman is certainly better than none. 

“You best get yourself together,” Reynauld speaks again, focus still on his longsword. “We leave at dusk.”

“At dusk?” Dismas looks to the knight, tone incredulous. 

“Dusk. We’ll get to the Estate at first light then.”

“Dusk!” Paracelsus chirps again. “And to think you’ve woken up at noon! Hopefully you don’t have much to do in the means of being prepared.”

Dismas grabs his boots hastily and rushes out the door before anyone can decide to say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this pieces direction is changing some, but it means I'm more motivated to write it. Thanks for bearing with me, and bring plenty of torches for the dungeon in the next chapter.  
> \- wraith


	3. Step Into Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pallid town, grating cohorts, and stale bread. The last thing Dismas needs is having to leave the town with the cohorts to pursue the task the heir has given them, but fate isn't so kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're chipping away at the plot, slowly. I have plans for this fic, but college is consuming so updates will be slow.   
> Thanks for reading so far and enjoy this small addition!

The town is sickly. That’s all Dismas can say of it as he crosses the worn stone bridge. Buildings stand, threatening to cave to the wind. Townspeople look pale, devoid of will as much as life. Everything smells of must. Even the light from the windows has a pallor glow. The townsfolk stay away from the triad, shamble around them, but eyes flick over the noble and linger on the pair who are clearly untouched by the town’s necrosis. 

Dismas is starting to doubt the stability of the town. Of course, he can’t say he expected the town to be cheerful. Brigands in the woods was one thing, a normal thing. These town people seem plagued by something greater. Unease sinks into the hired man’s stomach. 

The first thing to draw his attention across the bridge is a covered wagon- currently empty, bar the driver who looks to be preparing to set out on the Old Road. He seems to be the only one journeying in the wagon. Dismas wonders if the surviving thugs had finished plundering the stagecoach they left behind, and if so, would they be so ready to spring again? They have it easy. The thugs have a group, safety in numbers, options for pickings and plenty of them. He turns from the wagon with a scathing sense of how he had to scrape for what ultimately ended in a pathetic, gouging sin. 

“How much would you wager on him gettin’ jumped?” It’s a bitter scoff, under his breath to the man besides him. He waits for a second, then realizes who he’s walking with. A moment of silence passes, and then the righteous condescension begins.

“I suppose you would bet more than I, if I gambled. You are the robber among us.” The crusader says it without even a sparing glance, and Dismas has to bite his tongue to manage spitting daggers back. 

“I don’t gamble, knight. Or I can’t, not anymore-- known to be fond of a certain pair of dice.” Though, maybe in this sorry excuse for a town he can get away with it. Dismas makes a note to try his hand at the tables when he has gold to wager as he hears the knight scoff, suspicions likely confirmed. He still keeps his eyes forward as he adds another lash to their conversation. 

“I was referencing other sins, highwayman.” 

Dismas bites his tongue again, hand gripping his dagger’s hilt. How many men are clear of sin anyways?

\-----------

The dullness of the town at least provides peace, he thinks. Well, maybe silence is more apt, but Dismas thinks the state of the place and “silence” pair with rather morbid consequences. He’ll stick with peaceful, for his own sake. 

The knight had left to pursue viewing the state of the church leaving Dismas to wander on his own. He quite likes it. No pale heir, no reminders that he was likely going to hell-- especially since he has elected to skip the abbey for the time being. Not to mention, of course, the history of robbing, murdering, and other notable moral atrocities Dismas is sure he’s committed. No, just him, the red welts of the lashes the bloodletter had left, and the quiet.

Lovely. Absolutely lovely. 

Skipping the church, however, does give him the opportunity to pick out his bunk first. He tucks himself in the corner, with nothing to throw on the bed to claim it as his other than his gloves for the time being. The room is of substantial size. The heir must be expecting quite the ragtag group of misfits to assist him, then. So far the collection has gotten along swimmingly. Dismas can’t image there’ll be strife once they add even more to the mix. He huffs, letting the bunk take his weight. 

God’s teeth, what had he signed up for? 

He makes the decision to turn in early. His feet are sore from the walk, and his bones always seem to plead exhaustion. The beds, while not stunning, coerce him to lay back and close his eyes. He toes his boots off by the heels and lets them fall to the ground with dull thuds. Light, his chest hurts like hell.

Dismas cautiously slips his hand up his shirt. His wounds protest the prodding of his fingers. The whine of bruises under his touch. It had been through his coat and shirt, and yet the whip had still taken its pound of flesh. He sighs, tired of it all already. He’ll need to buy more belts. Two? Two. That’ll at least cover his stomach. He needs gold, though. Needs gold to eat and drink and to clothe himself-- maybe he should have stuck to thieving. 

Dismas rolls to his side. At least he has a bed. A good bed, in a safe room, in a good spot. Things could be worse. He pulls his coat over himself more closely, taking some comfort in the familiarity. Things will be better in the morning. 

\-----------

Things, unsurprisingly, are not better in the morning. He wakes up to an obnoxious voice and groggily fumbles to unwrap himself from the sheets. That’s when he sees the bird mask. 

“What in the Light’s--”

“So these are the quarters, hmm? I suppose I would have expected better. No matter! We shall only be sleeping here, no need to be opulent!” She throws a pack on her bed of choice, the top bunk right next to his, without so much as looking at him. Or, maybe she is. Can she see him through the tinted glass?

He can feel Reynauld’s gaze on him, though. No doubt he’s waiting to scold him for his sacrilege. Dismas sits up now, body protesting. Beyond the bird woman and the crusader, there’s another in the room. A nun? She sets her bundle on the bed close to the fireplace, where Reynauld is cleaning his blade on a poorly-made stool. Birds of a feather, then. Dismas fumbles for his gloves, scowl already on his face. 

The bird woman looks at him now-- he knows because her beak is pointed straight at him. “And who are you, friend?”

“I should ask you the same thing. I was here first, after all.” He pulls his gloves on as abrasively as he can manage. He should have liked to sleep for awhile longer. Yet, it seems like their accomplices have no sense of courtesy. 

“That ragged fool is Dismas.” The brigand flashes his scowl towards Reynauld now. What a prick. He wouldn’t even let him have the dignity of his own introduction. 

“Dismas!” She all but chirps. “Well then, I’m Paracelsus, your scientist on the premise.” 

He can’t help but wonder why they hired a scientist to the team. Will she dissect the rodents nibbling at the townsfolk feet?

“Junia.” The other calls from her bunk. Her voice is soothing in comparison to all the others, and Dismas finds it to pacify his irritation. He snorts. One likeable woman is certainly better than none. 

“You best get yourself together,” Reynauld speaks again, focus still on his longsword. “We leave at dusk.”

“At dusk?” Dismas looks to the knight, tone incredulous. 

“Dusk. We’ll get to the Estate at first light then.”

“Dusk!” Paracelsus chirps again. “And to think you’ve woken up at noon! Hopefully you don’t have much to do in the means of being prepared.”

Dismas grabs his boots hastily and rushes out the door before anyone can decide to say another word. 

\-----------

It’s dusk when Dismas stands at the stone bridge, chewing on a chunk of bread that tastes stale. He should’ve haggled harder for it-- he had been under the assumption it was fresh. Feh. He tears off another piece with his teeth. The other half of the loaf in the pack, stashed away for a meager breakfast. 

Surprisingly, he’s the first one there. He had expected Junia or Reynauld to beat him, being the noble heroes that took on such a righteous, weighty quest. They aren’t as punctual as they are devoted, he figures. Or maybe it speaks to a lack of both punctuality and devotion. Dismas scoffs, amused by himself. 

The setting sun casts an orange light over the hamlet. It’s almost pleasant- the chill to the air and gentle rustle of the wind in the leaves. He’s fond of the fall. The highwayman huffs with a mirthless smile. He can’t properly enjoy this now, anyways. 

The second to arrive is Reynauld, armor properly donned and longsword clean at his hip. If he’s surprised to see Dismas here before him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he murmurs what sounds like a prayer to Dismas’s ears, head bowed, and then returns to his normal resolute posture. The brigand wonders if the man prays before every outing or if he expects the journey to be that treacherous. 

Next comes, Junia. She offers no prayer, only a simple greeting to them both. Her vestments smell like incense. She has already done her praying then. He eyes the mace and book at her side until a bright voice draws him away. A bright, singing voice. The bird woman. 

“Well aren’t we all rather somber! I’m glad to see you managed to ready yourself, Dismas, especially with the way you scurried out the door.” She’s likely beaming behind her mask, Dismas thinks. 

“My apologies,” Dismas all but scoffs, “some of us didn’t arrive under the most pleasant circumstances. Tell a hungry man you’re surprised he found food before you prod at me for finding sleep.”

Paracelsus looks to her companion, taken aback. Partially satisfied, Dismas eats the last of his bread ration to spare himself the task of pacifying the situation. Of course, this allows Reynauld to do it. 

“Cut the petulance, thief. We’ve no need of strife before we embark, and certainly not during our journey.” He looks to Dismas as he scolds him, but Dismas can’t see his eyes through his helm. Light, he hates that. He’s left to bitterly chew on his stale bread for the moment, gazing back to the crusader coldy to let him know his distaste. 

Thankfully, the stagecoach saves him. The caretaker, with his eerie smile, welcomes them aboard. 

As fate would have it, he’s stuffed by the crusader again. The wheels start to turn, and they are carried out of the town in a matter of minutes. This time Dismas hopes the ride won’t end in a splintered axel and getting thrown about the cabin. Junia sits across from him, sparing him the awkward position of sitting across from Paracelsus after his quip. The vestal studies her holy book, and Dismas lets his gaze wander the pair. 

There’s not much to say of Paracelsus. She’s been strange from the start, and Dismas hasn’t seen her without the curious, if not simply off-putting, plague mask. Junia though? Dismas turns to look at her absentmindedly, relaxing back into the seat. She’s rather pretty, he thinks. Despite her face seeming soft and unmarked, her brow holds a sternness to it. She is devoted, then. That or she carries a weight with her. Or, perhaps, both. Why the pair had become hired hands, he doesn’t know. Dismas crosses his arms over his stomach and casts his gaze out the window. He doesn’t want to try to devise their intentions. They would either tell him, or they wouldn’t, and he’s not breaking the silence between the party. The passing trees and dull throb of his welts will have to amuse him until their journey ends.

Sleep must have caught up to him at some point. Dismas starts at the jostle of his shoulder and becomes aware of the shifting in the cabin. The women have already left, and the crusader, who must have deigned to wake him, doesn’t deign to let Dismas out of the stagecoach first. He’s already turning away while Dismas rights himself, pulling his coat straight and tighter around himself against the brisk draft from outside. 

When he finally slips out, he knows he’s not the only groggy one. Paracelsus, at least, tries to rub at her eyes, willfully ignorant of the plague mask she wears. Junia, on the other hand is alert. Her eyes are bright, focused. Dismas spares a glance at Reynauld, but he can’t find a sign of any sort of emotion through his helm. Typical. Dismas turns his gaze to the sky, trying to discern the time. It must be early-- the light is still weak. It’s just enough that things are no longer grey, but are lent color enough to be distinguishable. The air is cold, and Dismas tugs his neckerchief higher against the bite of it against his skin. 

The caretaker gestures to ruins, one hand still covering his morbid smile. Dismas tries to subdue a grimace and follows his motion. A crumbling tower and rusted iron gate are all that mark the once likely notable entry. A crack of reigns makes Dismas whip his head back toward the stagecoach, but it’s already rattling away back along the path. Irritation stirs in his chest at the man’s poor excuse for direction and sordid grin. It’s like he found delight in the party’s task. Dismas wants to retaliate out of spite, but he has no means to, and when he turns back to the rest of the hired hands, they’re already making way towards the gates. He swears soft under his breath and hurries to catch up, finding his place behind the crusader while mumbling about how three people was too many, they’d get in the way of his shot, but he doubts the other’s care much.

The gate opens with a sinister creak, and Dismas feels his hackles raise. When they step past the debris and wreckage the dark slips over them. As soon as Dismas’s feet touch the cobblestone dread sounds in the back of his mind. Reynauld lights a torch against the suffocating dark, but it’s effects are meager. Dismas rests his hand on his dagger, white-knuckled.

He wonders if a man can tell when he’s stepping into Hell.


	4. Bleed Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Dismas's territory, a brigand in a environment rich with coin for the taking. There are things no man can plan for, however, like eldritch horrors and walking corpses. 
> 
> Well, skeletons, corridors, it doesn't matter. He just has to keep moving.

The four take wary first steps into the ruins. The dark feels suffocating, and Dismas is sure that without a torch it would feel as if it were at his throat, a threat as much as any knife. Normally, he could find some peace in the shadows. When the old band finally fell apart in his younger years as a thief, once he had finished listening for the dogs he had outrun and outsmarted, the dark was welcoming. It could lull him to sleep, the cool air like his love's gentle hand across his cheek. It offered solace, if only for the time he was asleep. A sadness touches him for a moment, and then he shakes the thought away.

This darkness offers no sanctuary. 

Dismas stays close to the back of the crusader, comforted in part by the man's resolve alone. He doesn't like the knight, but he knows he's no coward. This is a band, the first one in a long while he thinks, where he won't have to worry about honor among thieves. There are plenty of other things to worry about, of course. Does the bird-woman know how to use anything other than a surgeon's knife? Is the vestal prepared to use the mace she carries? Dismas only trusts Reynauld's ability because he has seen it first hand. He dares not wonder about their supplies. Their rucksacks are weighty, yes, but would they be enough? 

“What's our aim?” Dismas asks in a strained whisper as if the darkness can hear him. 

“Oh, my friend, you were asleep when Reynauld came back with the expedition orders,” Paracelsus chirps helpfully, her voice only marginally softer than normal. Dismas hopes her enthusiasm holds. He certainly doesn't have any, and hadn't from the beginning. “We're to assess the nature of these ruins, and bring back wealth and items of interest.” 

Dismas nods, tugging his neckerchief higher. Ah, thieving. He can do that at least. Perhaps that's why the heir hired him. 

The task doesn't sound difficult, just grueling. The party walk through the first hall quietly, feet scuffling along the cobblestone. The torch is cast over gothic looking arches, crumbling stone, and furnishings alike. Dismas is almost amazed at how much of the original space had been left untouched by whatever befell it. 

What had befallen it? Dismas looks uneasily to oil paintings laying in their broken frames on the floor as they pass them. It was a rich house. Perhaps a riot? But the hamlet seems too quaint for that. Maybe there are other surrounding villages. He leaves his mind there as they manage to find their way to a room, Reynauld pushing the wooden door open despite its rusty hinges. It protests in a groaning creak, but it's not enough to keep the four from moving through. 

The room opens up to a grand amount of bookcases, most still holding their designated collections. A fireplace sits at the back of the room, ashes strewn from it across its hearth. The dust in the air is palpable, as if it were humid. It takes a second for Dismas to realize it's because Paracelsus pulled a book off the shelves and promptly swept the dust from it with little regard for her party. Dismas hears Junia cough and thanks his neckerchief quietly. Reynauld waves the torch across the shelves, and Dismas takes a step closer to inspect them. The books’ spines range from opulently adorned spines to nearly none at all, their contents spanning a range likely similar. None catch his eye, so he turns his attention to the shelves in particular, looking for any trinkets or baubles a rich family might decorate with.

“There are fingerprints.” It's Junia who speaks, her hand gracing one of the shelves lightly. Dismas looks to her through the dim light, a particularly dull wooden puzzle in his hands. 

“Fingerprints?” Reynauld asks. Dismas sets the wooden puzzle down, finding he's annoyed by the simple surprise the pair seem to share. 

“So?” Dismas shifts to the mantle above the fireplace. “You think we're the first to come here? I'd wager all the coin in my pocket we're not. An old mansion, abandoned? Looters, scoundrels hired to find blackmail, thrill-seekers-- I'm sure plenty have ravaged this old place. It's certainly picked over for a wealthy noble's manor.” 

“I suppose,” Junia answers, but he knows she's still on edge. He wonders how uncomfortable a woman of the cloth is when she's selling her mace and has instructions to loot like a petty thief. Leave it to the professionals, he thinks, pulling a candlestick down from the mantle. 

It's an elaborate piece wrought in silver. The candles themselves are gorgeous, something someone had gone through great efforts to create. It's almost a pity to pry them from the metal. Dismas stuffs it into his bag all the same, pressing down food in order to make it fit. The candles he leaves on the mantle. Who knows? Maybe they'll be used someday. 

The lighting of a new torch marks their continuation of the journey into the ruins. The next hallway beckons them into the same darkness. Reynauld stops to kneel down, and Dismas can hear the rustling of cloth. He stands and shows a handful of gold to Dismas. 

“You were right about the looters.” Of course I was, Dismas wants to huff, but he doesn't. Instead, Reynauld speaks up again. “It looks to be as though our robber didn't get to savor his prize.” 

Dismas follows Reynauld's gaze to a skeleton, curled against the far wall. He grits his teeth, unsure of what to make of it. Was it disease that took the poor scoundrel? Hunger?

“Well, let's not let the sorry sod interrupt our work. His luck ran thin, and I find it best not to dwell around folk like that too often.” Dismas urges the crusader forward with a small nudge. 

The next room they happen upon is less bare. Dismas pockets several lovely rings, and Paracelsus shows the group a delightful set of what Dismas can only assume are scientific instruments. She must deem them worthy, as she carefully arranges them in her pack to take back to the hamlet. Dismas even sees Junia pull the drawstrings of a purse closed before adding it to her sack. They'd make honest thieves yet. 

The dungeon feels less menacing, he thinks. Looting old manors was never something he planned to grow accustomed to, but he's breaking it in, certainly. He's even, maybe, enjoying himself. He is the only one, after all, who seems less than bothered by their mission of picking the place clean. Dismas smiles to himself as he stuffs an ornate pocket watch into his bag. He can't tell the time so far from sunlight, but he would guess they've been searching for half a day, now. 

“Let's find one more stash, mm?” Dismas suggests, rather pleased with himself. He's finally the one in his element, comfortable even with the healing welts aching. “Come, one more and then we can rest.” 

The party seems to be wary about the proposition. Junia and Reynauld share a glance. Paracelsus just sets the book she was pursuing back on the shelf with a quiet hum. Perhaps it's because he seems so chipper about the prospect. Dismas sighs, not fond of the idea of making a case for likely another quarter-hours work. "It won't take too long. Then we can eat and settle for the night. Besides, it's not like there's much to be found. One more room won't set us back, and it's less to do tomorrow." 

Reynauld is the first to make a move, hoisting the torch from the braiser again and moving towards the door they had not opened yet. "Alright, brigand. It does us no good to waste our time tarrying about like listless fools." 

Dismas smiles, pleased. For once the crusader agrees with him, and that itself is a victory. The highwayman follows, tugging his neckerchief higher. He hears the others fall in behind him. One more room to pilfer, then supper and rest. This isn't half bad, he muses. He could get used to this. The winds that gusts through as the door open chills his skin. Dismas frowns, glad he pulled the cloth over his face. Goosebumps form on his skin, and he spares a glance back to check on the lasses. The torch light casts harsh shadows over their features. Unsettling. He turns his gaze back to the front. 

They walk, feet quiet across the stone and ragged carpet. Steps are only slightly less wary than before, but the feeling of the importance of silence is still there, an unspoken rule. And they uphold it. The wind calls, howling low and faint through the corridor as the only voice daring enough to sound off. The torch sputters with it, and he can hear an annoyed "tch" from Reynauld as it goes out. Dismas waits, a little less than patient, for the light to come back as the man works to light a new torch. His gaze wanders past the man's pauldrons. What he sees stops his heart in his chest. 

White, cracked- he can see the jagged cut of a cheekbone, an empty eye socket. All he can do is let out a panicked shout before something splashes across his face, making him reel and sputter. It soaks into his neckerchief and Dismas feels panic shoot through his spine. The light comes back and passes back above him. He looks up from wiping his face in his sleeve to see the torch move to be taken by Junia, who quickly stows her book at her hip. The next thing he hears is a crack of a pommel against a metal helm, and Reynauld stumbles back, knocking into the highwayman. Dismas manages to catch him- barely. The man must weigh a ton, and the strike must have rattled him enough to disorient him because he's certainly not supporting his own weight. He shoves the crusader back to his feet with a grunt just in time to watch Paracelsus sidestep a club that swings for her skull. The wielder is yet another corpse- no, skeleton. There's no rotting flesh that Dismas can see. No, these are animated skeletons, every bone moving as it would under skin. Horror reaches for his heart

A crack resounds, light flashing bright. For a moment, Dismas thinks it's the sound of a head being bashed in, and as he looks he expects to see one of his band laid out across the cobblestone, blood glinting in the torchlight. Instead, a skeleton stumbles back, bone scorched black. Junia stands, mace raised, seemingly unfazed by the foes before her. It gives Dismas a moment to collect himself, stave off the racing of his heart if only for a second. 

He counts four of them. All bonemen. Two have clubs, one simply a cup- that must have been what splashed against his face- and the one in the forefront, a sword that catches the light ominously. Reynauld seems to have regained his composure and lifts his sword. He holds it tight, close, and the tips points toward the soldier of the four. It's a challenge, Dismas can feel it. The skeleton's mouth falls open to show ghastly teeth and broken tendon that withered long ago. It accepts. 

Dismas pulls his flintlock from his belt and dagger from his sheath. His welts protest, but they're deafened by the adrenaline coursing through his blood. He is, in this moment, ready to lash out with no resignation. Nothing but panic clings to him, but it's fight or die, and the highwayman has no intention of falling here to these things. The first shot comes easy. He pulls the hammer back and lines it up between the posh skeleton's sockets. There's another crack, this one distinctly from a gun, and a mandible fractures off in shattering pieces. The courtier turns to look at him with no sound, no rock back. It doesn't seem like it feels pain, only that it realizes something has been taken for it and that there is retribution to be reaped. By the Light, Dismas thinks. They're facing monsters, one's that don't stop when they're wounded. 

Would they stop at all? Would they die? Or would the party? The party made of flesh and blood, who are weary, who are hungry, who would flinch and fall and cry in anguish at the same shot. Dismas tightens his knuckles as it lurches towards him. It raises the cup again, and this time he sees the black liquid start to slosh in the confines. He jerks back as it goes past his shoulder, hissing as it hits the floor. 

The skeleton leans in with the extension of its arm, and Dismas capitalizes on it. Bones crunch as he jams his dagger up through the bottom of the skull. It catches, and Dismas forces it higher til he wrenches the thing's head towards him. Its cap falls to the ground as he grits his teeth. He doesn't see the flash of a blade until it's too late. He's too close, his dagger is stuck- pain bites in his side. He can feel the knife agonizingly catch in bone, stealing his breath in a stricken hitch. He yanks his blade free and smashes the pommel across the creature's remaining mandible. It careens away and Dismas's hand is immediately over the wound it gave him. The knife is still there, twisting as he moves. It draws a painful whimper from him. 

Glass explodes from his right. Green acid fizzles and this time the skeleton does reel. Bones are breaking down, the acid eating away and exposing channels where marrow would have been. Paracelsus shouts, somewhere between pleased and vindictive. Dismas can tell she steps back with a limp. They may be fending the creatures off, but they are paying for it wound for wound. 

Dismas whips his attention back to the courtier that had left its knife in his side. It lays across a moth-eaten rug, skull broken like a crushed eggshell. They can be beaten- they can be felled. It only assuages the panic for a moment. The next, he hears an enraged bellow from Reynauld. He hold his head in the dim light- must have gotten his head rocked again. Dismas takes a few steps before grunting and sucking in a breath between his teeth. Fuck. No. The blade lodged in his side protests too much. He drops to a knee, not that it helps more with the pain. He opens his pouch of gunpowder, hands shaking. He pours it down the barrel of his pistol, spilling it over his hand in his rush, in his fear. Swears color his breaths as he shakily tamps it down, fits the cloth with the round, presses it into the barrel too. The knife presses against his knee, into his side more. He thanks the gods his belts stop the pommel from getting any closer, but it still likely splintered a rib. It hurts to even breathe. 

The soldier raises its sword and Dismas can't take any longer than a second to aim, arm wavering with the effort. He pulls the trigger and watches powder spray from the back of its rib cage. Its arm hangs by threads of gristle and the sword it holds weighs the thing's grip down, the point of the sword scraping against stone. The crusader heaves, cleaving his longsword through its skull. 

Bones clatter to the ground and Dismas lets his flintlock bring his arm back down. Good, good. Damn. He grunts and sits back until his shoulders find the wall. His hand grips the handle of the knife in his side, takes a deep breath. It comes out with an undignified gasp and a sharp stab of pain. He clamps his hand over the wound as soon as he can, lets his head fall back until it too rests against the stone of the wall. It's been a long time since he was shanked. Some dirty alley in the back of that city. Certainly he's never gotten stabbed by a skeleton. 

The dull clatter of a skirmish sounds still. There's no more clanging of blade against blade, no he doesn't hear that. He lets his breath slow, trying to come down from the rush, the fear. He's still vaguely aware he has lost much more blood than is considered good for him. He's losing more, he can tell. It's soaking into his glove, his shirt and belts. 

This is most definitely not good for his health. 

Dismas sighs, lets his eyes close. He's surprisingly sleepy. He was tired before, but now he's beyond exhausted. Surprisingly comfortable for what just happened. Ah. What is that called? His wife had told him once, when he came home hands bleeding profusely. He had cut them up after a spill. He had also, apparently, broken his wrist. Shock, she had said as she set it. He remembers how it throbbed dully. Even now it moves with protest, aches with the weather. But she had taken care of him. 

He's not sure that there's anyone to take care of him now. 

He's too dazed for panic now. He's just disgruntled, protesting. Dismas has no intentions of dying here, but damn if it doesn't seem likely. He sighs, wrapping his other arm around his stomach. At least it's warmer. Slowly, gradually, he can't seem to keep his eyes open. He's tired. Right, the shock. Soon, he doesn't care much for the sound of the fight. He can feel sleep- unconsciousness- calling. And he doesn't much mind the idea. It rolls in like fog, and the highwayman's head tucks to his chest as he passes out. 

Dismas wakes with a start, shoulder jostled by another. He jerks to sit up, and then falls back decidedly against the pain. It's Junia, face over his with a knitted brow. "Ah, good morning."

"You're lucky you survived, you dalcop." She's displeased. What did he do? "Only an idiot pulls out a weapon lodged in his side. You nearly bled out."

Ah. Yes. He did do that. 

"So why didn' I?" He mutters, hand pressing against where the wound is. She swats it away immediately. "Because the Light willed it, and I channeled that will. That doesn't mean you're not wounded though, so stop fussing with it. The wound isn't nearly as deep anymore, but you'll open it again if you don't behave." 

"I'll behave, love," Dismas mumbles back tiredly. "Where are we?"

"Another room," Paracelsus says quietly. Dismas twists his head to find the source of her voice. She's huddled in on herself, busying her hands with pouring more things into a round beaker. This is the first time he hasn't heard a sing-song tone to her voice. 

Dismas turns to look at the rest of the room. Reynauld is in the corner, awake, but staring blankly at the ceiling. He looks beyond tired. His helmet lays beside him. An ugly dent in the surface glares at him from where it sits. 

"The doors are barred. We've been here for an hour, at least. Everyone's taken some injuries, save myself," Junia murmurs, this time more gently. "Reynauld took two strong blows to the head. His helmet saved him, but I doubt it'll do much more than it has."

"That thing broke my foot," the scientist adds.

"I don't understand," she continues, movements becoming more agitated. "There's no explanation for what those... creatures are. I could fine no living tissue- no organs, no brain-" 

"Enough." It's Reynauld, from his corner. His voice is hoarse, ragged with exhaustion. "They are unholy things. They heed no science, no doctrine that you will find among your bookshelves. It does no good to question them like they are rational." 

Paracelsus clucks her tongue, but says nothing. Silence falls between them, tension like a blanket. 

Dismas lets it hang for several minutes. Reynauld is right. Still, the idea is harrowing. Dread creeps in at the thought of them. If there were four, there must be more. Are the ruins crawling with them? Were they to face more? He stops himself, squeezing his eyes shut. Then he lets out a slow breath. 

"Let's eat." There's no room for it to be a suggestion. He doesn't mean it to be. "Let's eat and start a fire. I'll light the books, they should be enough." 

Dismas sits up, then stands. It only takes him walking a few steps towards the book cases for the others to stir as well. He's not sure they're as accustomed to this sort of hardship as he is, laying low and licking wounds with no sense of safety. Admittedly, this is no forest, but he'll be damned if he lets that get in his way. The least he can do is provide some sense of direction, at least until after they wake the next day. 

He tears books down from the shelves, tossing them in the center of the room. Right. This is his territory, a brigand. Skeletons, corridors, it doesn't matter. He just has to keep moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this chapter! 
> 
> If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a kudos or a comment! It's always great to hear from readers. 
> 
> See you in the next chapter!


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